


Pleading the Fourth

by xbritomartx



Series: The LBD-verse [8]
Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: F/F, Fingering, Sexual Roleplay, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26291632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbritomartx/pseuds/xbritomartx
Summary: it's porn, you guys
Relationships: Rebecca Costa-Brown | Alexandria/Fortuna | Contessa
Series: The LBD-verse [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/959739
Kudos: 23





	Pleading the Fourth

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to ElCuervo for all his work idea-bouncing and betaing :]
> 
> thanks to Pericardium for writing the parts that are good :]

An oversized orange t-shirt emblazoned with a picture of a cat reading _To Kill a Mockingbird_ hit the smooth white floor. It was followed by her underwear, a well-worn but beloved pair of pink and blue hipster panties.

Rebecca let herself into the walk-in shower and sighed when she saw all her bath products lined up along the built-in bench. Arrayed against the bleak sterility of the white tile, her colorful assortment of bottles, soaps, and sponges looked outflanked and overwhelmed.

Seeing Contessa's home didn't exactly _explain_ a lot, but it did provide context—not only for her skewed perspective on, well, things in general, but also for Philip's comments on how minimalism was calculated to draw attention to itself.

 _Look at me_ , the greenless exterior, empty rooms, and unadorned halls seemed to say, _I'm cost-effective and environmentally conscious. Do I get a cookie yet? Psych! Cookies are for venal profligates!_

At least they permitted themselves hot water, and the showerhead _definitely_ wasn't a low flow model—though she suspected the water was almost certainly recycled or reused somehow. The place was full of bleeding edge smart-home gadgetry that she knew was supposed to be convenient and environmentally friendly, but mostly just creeped her out.

The shower, for instance, turned itself on after about ten seconds after she said hello to it (she had to _talk to it_ ), water already heated to a comfortably warm temperature that increased over the course of a minute. There were no controls, so far as she could see; Contessa had verbally introduced her to the showerhead their first morning, and now it seemed to clairvoyantly recognize her.

Spooky.

But weren't all showers spooky, when you really thought about it? And Rebecca did think about it as she scrubbed and shaved her legs and scrubbed again. To bathe was to be vulnerable, and everybody knew that on some gut level.

Her mind automatically assembled supporting evidence, regardless of whether it was wise for someone in her situation to be contemplating _Psycho_. But maybe baths were scarier; _Shivers_ had echoes in _Nightmare on Elm Street_ and _Deadly Blessings_ and _Slither_ , and there were also Those Scenes in _The Shining_ and _Pet Sematary_. 

There might have been more recent entries, but her horror movie phase had, like the rest of her middle school experience, ended with her diagnosis.

She glanced out at the bathroom, just to make sure things were safe, and was reassured when she failed to see any nice guys wielding carving knives. The only things that looked out of place were the towels and the bath rug she had installed herself earlier that morning, and they only stuck out because they weren't white.

Conditioner was properly applied before shampoo, so she did that and considered her thesis further. It was also possible that baths weren't inherently scarier than showers, they were just easier to film in. Hitchcock could pull it off, but…that was Hitchcock.

And then, she thought, observing the world through the curtain of her hair, there were horrific undertones to people being drenched when in non-bathing situations. When they were fully clothed psychic hate goblins crawling out of wells, for instance.

From this perspective, it wasn't scary. She couldn't _see_. If _she_ had to crawl out of a well and materialize from some hapless reporter's television, she'd probably trip over the hem of her nightie or walk the wrong way.

Perhaps a form of echolocation could work?

"Hello, Victim of the Week," she muttered menacingly. "I cannot find you without lifting my hair, thereby spoiling the aesthetic of your gruesome death. Please scream loudly."

She screamed, loudly, as someone grabbed her by the shoulders. She was forced out from under the stream towards the far end of the shower before she recognized the hands that were gripping her upper arms.

"Contessa! Where did you come from?"

"Elsewhere."

 _Ask an ambiguous question, get an irrelevant answer._ "When did you get back from working out?"

"Recently."

She tried to wiggle around, mostly so she could _see_ those _abs_ , but Contessa held her firmly in place. "I want you to place your palms on the wall and wait."

So it was going to be like that, was it? No greetings, no hugging, no heartfelt conversations about the ethical implications of ambushing one's girlfriend in what she could now irrefutably prove was objectively the scariest place in the home, just straight to the foreplay?

_Nice try, girlie._

She opened her mouth, then thought better of it. Accusing Contessa of acting like a serial killer might not strike the right tone...

"Hey!" she said. "Am I being detained?"

"Clearly," Contessa replied. Her hands still hadn't moved, and Rebecca knew they weren't about to unless she did as she was told. "Stop fidgeting."

"On what basis? You have no reason to be suspicious!" She wished she could turn around and shake a finger in Contessa's face. "You have no corpse!"

This thirty-second delay was evidently too much for Contessa's patience, as she increased the pressure on Rebecca's arms, pushing her forward over the bench. Rebecca gave in, arranged her hands how she'd been asked, and Contessa wedged the ball of one foot in between her ankles and pushed outwards to nudge her feet apart. 

Once Rebecca had adjusted herself, Contessa released her, moving her hands down Rebecca's back. They settled on her butt, which she grabbed and held for several long moments.

"I have all the body I need," she said at last. Then she stepped back, presumably to admire the view.

Rebecca's heartbeat, which had slowed down once she'd confirmed she wasn't being visited by Norman Bates, picked up speed again. 

_Still_ , she reminded herself. _Not so fast._

So Rebecca treated herself to a soliloquy, speaking over the familiar sounds of Contessa briskly working through her routine. She was a freewoman of the land, and she explained this and all its implications while Contessa scrubbed herself down with unscented soap. By the time Contessa had finished rinsing out her sandalwood vanilla shampoo, Rebecca was on the topic of judicial legitimacy. "...a gold-fringed flag," she finished. "I've got rights."

"Be quiet."

"Yes! Well, sort of. It's phrased 'remain silent.' But I've got other rights, like protection against unreasonable search and seizure!"

Contessa seized her hips, and a jolt of anticipation leapt from the contact to her core. "This is not an unreasonable search. This is a…" She trailed off and considered the matter for a few seconds. "Reasonable search." 

"Under what statute!"

"Loitering. You've been standing here for the past five minutes."

"You told me to!"

Contessa ignored her. "Littering. You left dirty, rumpled clothes on my bathroom floor. And you turned my bed purple."

"Russian violet," Rebecca corrected. 

"Russian? So you admit to colluding with the enemy. Treason. Sedition." 

Rebecca opened her mouth to point out that the USSR didn't actually exist anymore, something she increasingly suspected that her girlfriend didn't know, but she gasped instead as Contessa ran a fingertip down her spine. 

_Note to self—_

Contessa made her way back up to the base of Rebecca's neck, slowly.

_Tell her later._

Contessa's murmur came from very close to her ear. "What else are you hiding?" 

"Nothing," Rebecca said. A token defense, offered for appearance and honor's sake, but intended to be ignored.

"We'll see about that," Contessa said. Her fingers intertwined with Rebecca's hair. "We'll start at the top. How did you obtain my credit card?"

Rebecca went for evasive. "Prove I did," she challenged. 

That she'd hurled her defiance at her soap somewhat dampened the effect, but Contessa was sufficiently provoked. Her free hand snaked around to a breast, briefly cupped it, then pinched the nipple harder than was strictly necessary.

"Oh," Rebecca said. So much for resistance.

"Oh?" Contessa echoed, then repeated her line of attack-slash-inquiry. 

"Oh—you mean _that_ credit card. The one you gave me!"

"I didn't, so that's fraud added to the list. Remind me what you were saying about probable cause."

" _Probital_ cause, am I right?" 

Contessa swatted her butt.

"Hey!" she squeaked. "Punning isn't a crime!"

"It is when you do it. Now," she said, rubbing the area she'd just struck, "explain the grand theft bedspread." 

Rebecca continued, keeping her voice steady even though it had jumped half an octave. "The record will show that you said, and I quote, 'pork lo mein, a bottle of diet Doctor Pepper, and whatever you want.' You didn't say I was only allowed to use it to get Chinese delivery. You didn't say _not_ to buy linen. You said 'whatever you want.'"

"And what you wanted was to spend more than five hundred of my dollars to replace things I already had," Contessa said, skepticism coloring every word. Her hand slipped from Rebecca's boob down her belly to rest in the curls at the apex of her legs.

 _Mons Veneris_ , Rebecca thought irrelevantly, and her mind went on a tangent as Contessa began to move her hand in slow, shallow circles. Ascraeus Mons, Olympus mons...Elysium mons. All volcanoes.

"Well?"

Rebecca jerked back to earth. "Altogether. You can't tell me your suits aren't hundreds of dollars apiece, and you go through them like tissue paper. You have a burn barrel in our dorm!"

"Presenting a professional image and disposing of potentially incriminating items are important." This wasn't part of the "interrogation." She'd stopped massaging Rebecca and there was a note of genuine confusion in her voice. "The color of my towels is irrelevant."

"Then you shouldn't object to having colorful ones. Checkmate!" 

Perhaps conceding the point, Contessa not only resumed her activity but expanded its scope, from skirting the edges of the question at hand to active probing. Rebecca, contra all her intentions to hold out, almost immediately began to whimper. There was her version of taking her time, and there was Contessa's way of taking _hers_ , and one of them was stronger than the other.

When Contessa finally relented and entered her, she met no resistance. 

Rebecca almost thought she'd forgotten the thread of conversation—and was certainly well on the way to forgetting it herself—when Contessa spoke again. "They don't match," she said, matching her words to the rhythm of her thrusts. "What I have now matches."

"'Matching' doesn't just mean 'looking the exact same.' Shades of purple and yellow match because they're complementary. Haven't you seen a color wheel?"

"It's unnecessary. I have towels."

"You have scraps of sackcloth! These are big and fluffy."

"And that rug," Contessa said, punctuating the word with the addition of her middle finger, "is doubly unnecessary. I simply dry off in the shower and don't slip when I exit."

Rebecca replied in bursts, when she had breath to spare. "The point isn't that you have magical balance and accident-avoidance skills. It's that you shouldn't live in something that looks like a hospital or a prison." _That you should treat yourself like a human being._

"Suspicious." She sounded distant, and Rebecca suspected she was losing interest in the game. She didn't need a story, and telling one was something she only did because Rebecca wanted it.

By this point, it didn't matter. Rebecca was beaten, and she didn't bother to defend herself further. She surrendered to a host of purely physical sensations. There Contessa's lips and Contessa's teeth on her ear and neck and shoulder, and there were the fingers inside her working in concert with the ones dancing over and around her clit, and—just as she was on the verge of losing herself—they stopped.

Contessa stepped away. "I am satisfied you aren't concealing anything there. Surprising, but perhaps you're savvier than I anticipated."

Rebecca wasn't satisfied and said as much. Somehow what had sounded like a bold declaration in her head came out as a needy whine. Contessa didn't dignify it with a response, and all Rebecca heard was the snap of a bottle being opened.

Was she seriously going to wash her hair again just to prolong this? There was teasing and there was outright sadism. Rebecca searched for a way to voice her protest, but the part of her that could generate coherent sentences and cogent arguments seemed to be inoperable.

Then Contessa's fingers returned, further back from where they'd just been, and introduced something cool and slick.

She hadn't been going for the shampoo. 

Rebecca huffed. Contessa always used too much lubricant and went too slowly. If asked, she'd claim she was just making sure it didn't hurt. Rebecca knew this was bullshit, that it was all about protracting her torment, which she'd already had quite enough of.

Yet she knew from experience that asking Contessa to go faster would provoke her into going twice as slowly, so she forced herself to stand still and wait. Frustratingly, Contessa kept most of her attention on her clit and simply skimmed the edge of her ring.

By the time she'd stopped her seemingly endless circling and moved on to slow, shallow thrusts, Rebecca was desperate. Worse, she was showing it with every pant and eager jerk of her hips. 

She lost patience when Contessa was no more than a knuckle deep, which was perhaps after fifteen seconds or perhaps after fifteen minutes. She thrust backwards to speed things along, to bring Contessa _inside_ , but Contessa anticipated her and pulled her fingers back. 

"Please," Contessa said. "There's no reason to make this obscene. It makes me wonder if you're trying to distract me from the business at hand."

"Yeah, well, your hand needs to be busier."

Contessa brought the palm of her other hand down on Rebecca's ass.

"Which one?" she asked. Her voice was so quiet Rebecca could barely hear it above the water that was pouring over them.

This wasn't fair. The game was rigged. Contessa would somehow find a way to do exactly the opposite of what she wanted, regardless of what she said.

"Which one, Rebecca? Since you know how this is supposed to go."

"Both?"

"That wasn't one of the options," Contessa observed, and spanked her again.

Rebecca considered advising her that her ability to distinguish between either/or and both/and was fast deteriorating, and if Contessa wanted her to think logically she'd have to provide some respite.

Something—likely Contessa landing another blow—told her that wouldn't work.

"Fine!" 

"Hm?"

"Fine. Right. Please."

"Please what?"

"Keep—searching me." 

"Thank you," Contessa said, "for giving me permission to do my job."

Then she plunged into Rebecca. 

Even with the warning, Rebecca gasped in surprise. 

There was no more teasing. Contessa had stopped talking, leaving only her fingers and steadily mounting pressure that demanded relief now. Rebecca couldn’t see her, but she could feel her nipples gently graze her shoulder blades without ever pressing against them.

Distantly, she wondered what Contessa was thinking. All she knew was that Contessa knew what she wanted and how badly she wanted it, expertly massaging Rebecca’s clit with her palm even as Rebecca ground herself into it. She was vaguely aware that she was moaning, and that Contessa was steadying her with the hand that she wasn't fucking herself senseless on, but her focus was narrowing rapidly. 

Eventually it was too much. When Rebecca came, she came hard—like a volcano erupting, the ball of heat and tension that had been gathering inside her suddenly released itself in glorious bursts. Her hips slammed into Contessa’s hand, and she couldn’t keep a moan from leaping out of her throat. 

Contessa supported her while she finished, waiting until Rebecca's breathing had slowed before she drew away. 

The shower turned off, apparently of its own accord, and Rebecca was left on the bench, shivering, suddenly cold in the absence of the water and her girlfriend.

But in a few moments Contessa was there, picking her up and turning her around and wrapping her in one of the giant (golden) yellow bath towels. They stood there for several minutes, Rebecca burrowing into Contessa's shoulder and Contessa holding her there, her face in her hair.

"Am," Rebecca said, testing her voice. She found it wanting, but swallowed, cleared her throat, and forged ahead. "Am I free to go?"

"Certainly not," Contessa informed her scalp. "For one thing, this was simply the initial threat assessment. We haven't gotten to the matter of the fine you will have to pay."

Visions of what tasks might constitute a fine cascaded through her mind, and she was almost disappointed when Contessa merely tilted her face up so their lips were almost touching. "For another, I haven't looked everywhere."

Rebecca closed the millimeters of distance and set about proving her innocence. 


End file.
